So, here I am in my little glass box, with no one to talk to but Alfred. Daphne the hamster is kept well away from me. As if I'd eat that mangy little rat thing.
As if I could even get to that mangy little rat thing. Like I said, I live in a small glass aquarium, and the funny thing about aquariums is that they're built for FISH. I am not a fish. Bubbles are not a part of my life. This is no place for me.
The light reflects off of the well-polished glass walls, glinting harshly at me. It's cold light, too--the kind of light you'd find in a doctor's examination room, or a school. Definitely not the kind of light you'd want to see at the end of the tunnel.
My owners lined the aquarium with sawdust, too. I expect they felt like they were being charitable by giving me a nice, soft, airy floor. Oh yes. Nothing homier than a bed made of woodchips. The little particles of wood get stuck all over my tongue, coating my mouth with the manky taste of wood that has, over time, soaked in the essence of a snake's bodily functions. Even my water bowl has little floaty gritty bits, like badly brewed coffee.
I have a little igloo, too. A plastic igloo that sits in the corner, looking cheap, dinky, and stupid. I don't fit inside of it, even when I curl up as tight as I can. And it's an igloo. I'm a snake. Igloos and snakes don't even belong in the same sentence, let alone in the same aquarium.
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